


The Fated

by TolkienGirl



Series: Vignettes of Valinor [10]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Canon Compliant, Childbirth, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Gen, naming, to a degree at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 06:13:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18026264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: The birth of the Ambarussa is not exactly a happy one.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ages here are--Maedhros (51), Maglor (45), Fingon (35), Celegorm (30), Caranthir (17), Curufin (5)  
> Much of the bones of this story are owed to Dawn Felagund's amazing work in "Another Man's Cage."

The front door of the house hangs, half-torn, from its hinges.

Only one man made the door, and only one man could—and would dare to—destroy it. Maitimo pauses with a hand half-raised, a name half on his lips, and runs inside.

The house is in the aftermath of an uproar. His brothers are scattered around the rooms like broken crockery.

And at the head of the long table, her head in her hands, her swollen belly resting almost on her knees, Amil is sobbing.

He goes to her first. It is necessity, if not also a selfish instinct of childhood. He kneels beside her and she leans into his arms, their hair mingling copper and copper.

Maitimo would ask if she is hurt, but that would be a betrayal of another kind.

Atarinkë sends up a plaintive wail, and Amil’s hand closes around his wrist. “Go to him. Please?”

He is ashamed that she even had to ask, that he permitted himself to choose wrongly—yet again—between duties. He finds Atarinkë huddled like a gremlin—gremlins are the stuff of Makalaurë’s ghost stories, and the vivid image has lasted—in the corner of the kitchen. There is porridge on Atarinkë’s wobbling chin. Maitimo picks him up, settles him on his hip, and does his best not to wince when Atarinkë winds small hard fists in his braids and _pulls_.

“Where is Makalaurë, _winimo_?” he asks softly. It takes all the strength he has in his bones not to shout, to tremble, to curse Makalaurë for being anywhere but _here, when needed_ —even though it was he, the eldest, who whiled away too many hours around a wine-soaked fire as his family crumbled like embers in a blaze. “Where is Káno?”

Atarinkë has stopped crying. He stares with piercing eyes, the same shade of grey as Atar’s, and Maitimo finds that he cannot hold his smallest brother’s gaze for long.

Carnistir next, then. Carnistir always bears the brunt of family strife visibly: now, he is face-down on the woven rug before the hearth, his fists bunched in it, slamming his forehead against its folds. Maitimo bites his lips and reaches down with his free hand, smoothing back Carnistir’s rough hair.

“Moryo…”

“Do not call me that!”

Carnistir is only seventeen. He still looks like a child, and will not look much different for several years. His face is as red as it was when Amil named him for it, and his eyes are shiny with tears. “Carnistir,” Maitimo amends. His scalp aches; sometimes he wonders if Atarinkë hates him, for he is much more punishing in his affections than any of the preceding three. “Carnistir, I need to find Káno.”

Carnistir pushes himself up. There is no bruise forming on his square forehead; Maitimo is grateful for that. “Káno went to look for you. He took Tyelko.”

“When?”

Atarinkë starts to wail again. Maitimo can bear it no longer—he reaches up and untangles Atarinkë’s talons before he takes a whole braid with him. He says nothing, because the alternative is saying, _Káno is a fool for leaving, he should have stayed with all of you, and looked after Amil_.

Káno means well. His fatal flaw is that he does not have an eldest’s instincts, and that, in turn, is not his fault.

_It is yours._

With one hand, Maitimo straightens the rug. There is nothing else astray here—nothing broken. Carnistir trails him into the kitchen, where porridge is still bubbling (burning) on the enormous stove. Porridge for supper? But of course—Amil is too weary to do anything else, and Atar, apparently, too angry—

And at times like this, the few servants they keep are sent away.

Atar was not angry in the morning, when Maitimo rode away for a rare day of escape and friendship. He was almost merry, his eyes snapping with their hidden depths of fire, his hands turning a gem over and over in his hands as he dreamt of its setting.

 _You cannot leave them, even for a day. You know this_.

There are footsteps in the hall. In another moment, the footsteps reveal their source to be Makalaurë, who bursts in with his hair all wild, and his eyes, somehow wilder still.

“Where in all of Aman _were_ you?”

Maitimo grits down the retort that springs to his lips— _where were_ you? Carnistir buries his face in the edge of Maitimo’s tunic, and Atarinkë kicks down at his head. “I am here now,” Maitimo answers. “Will you take them and put them to bed, so that I may go and sit with Amil?”

Makalaurë feels too much himself to be any comfort to Amil. He will cry if she cries—this is likely why he ran away on a fool’s errand.

To the contrary, Maitimo is sometimes certain that _he_ feels almost nothing at all.

“Do not put them to bed,” comes Amil’s voice from the doorway behind Makalaurë. “We are going to Tirion.”

They all gape at her, surprised. Maitimo is no less surprised than any of them. To go to Tirion—all of them—without Atar, or at least without his blessing?

“Makalaurë,” Amil says, with a smile that does not quite reach her red-rimmed eyes, “Will you call Tyelko in from the yard—without Huan, if you please—and pack a small bundle of clothing for each of your brothers?” She steps forward, reaching for Atarinkë, who is once again tearing at Maitimo’s hair. “I’ll take him.”

“Amil,” Maitimo protests. “I don’t mind.”

“I would like something to hold,” she says firmly—and awfully. Atarinkë goes to her willingly. Maitimo tries to swallow down whatever dread thing has lodged in his throat.

Makalure takes Carnistir by the hand and half-drags him out. In a moment, they hear him calling for Tyelko, his musical voice frayed with worry.

Amil smooths Atarinkë’s cheek with a finger. She looks out the window towards the west. “I have had dreams, of late.”

“Dreams?” Maitimo’s hands are useless; he keeps twisting and untwisting them together. He clenches his fingers over the back of a chair instead. “What manner of dreams?”

“We must reconcile,” Amil breathes. “We cannot stay out here on the edge forever. Not without grievous cost.” She turns back and looks at him, at her eldest son, with a sad smile playing on her lips. “Your father did not like these dreams. He swears I am manipulating him into feigning subservience to…”

“The Valar?”

“And to your half-kin. Yes. We exchanged some ugly words. I said that he is not the one walking around with three _fëa_ inside of him, so he should perhaps consider that I am wiser, for once.”

 _You are always wiser_. Maitimo does not say it aloud. “You asked him to go to Tirion?”

“They’ll be born early,” Amil says. “Your brothers. Perhaps I should have told him that; perhaps it would made a difference. But last night it came to me with certainty: I shall have these children in Tirion, if I wish to live. If I wish _them_ to live.”

Atarinkë whimpers. Maitimo feels as if a cold blast—from whence he knows not—has rippled through the windowpanes and struck him full across the face. “You fear… _death_?”

“I fear many things, Maitimo.” It is not like Amil to speak so, and even she must realize this, for she shakes herself, and Atarinkë with her. “I told your father I would go to Tirion, and he told me he would rather us all go to the Void. I told him not to wait on us.” She puffs out a breath, looking vexed as she does when clay will not obey her.

Maitimo wishes it were so simple.  

“If they are to be born early”—and here he must trust Amil’s judgment over his own, for Amil is the one who has birthed five children and is about to birth two more, all over the span of only fifty-one years—“Do you think you can travel by horseback safely?”

“It will not be comfortable,” Amil agrees. “But I am safe yet.” She should be; it has only been eleven months. She ought to have another.

“You’ll ride with me.”

“You sound like your father when you speak in that tone,” she says. Her smile has slipped away. Maitimo doubts he could even find its pieces. “Only much kinder.”

Makalaurë tumbles downstairs with Tyelko and Carnistir in tow. Huan is with them after all, tracking mud across the floorboards. Amil clucks her tongue at him, but offers no rebuke to Tyelko.

“There is bread in the cupboard,” she says. “If you have not eaten, eat. Maitimo and I shall be ready in a moment.”

 

Here is a memory he shall carry with him long afterwards: Amil leaning against him on the back of the plough-horse, her hands gripping his, pain in the stiffness of her spine. The horse is not their swiftest, but the one who could best carry his weight and hers without uneasiness. Their lighter steeds bear Makalaurë and Atarinkë, Tyelko with Carnistir clinging to his waist.  

 _Forgive us_ , Maitimo thinks, and knows not to whom he prays. He holds the reins in one hand and keeps the other around her, around the twins.

_Forgive him._

 

Telperion is beaming on Tirion when they arrive, and it is just as well. Fewer eyes are watchful in the evening. The rumors of Fëanorian unruliness will spread, as they always do, but for now Maitimo is plainly, painfully grateful for quiet streets through which they may ride without interruption.

At the palace gates, the guards bow and stand aside. Whatever they may think of the High Prince’s wife and sons in dusty travel clothes, whatever they may think of the propriety of having more children when the last youngest is still almost a babe, they never show it on their faces.

The herald steps from the shadow, bright in Finwë’s livery.

“You are most welcome and well-met, Lady Nerdanel,” he cries. “And my lords. Your chambers are always held open, but the King and Queen are gone from here.”

“Gone?” Amil’s voice does not shake, but Maitimo is close enough to know that her shoulders fall, as if the stiffness he felt before was all her own pretense of strength. “Thither have they gone?”

“To Alqualondë, with my lord Arafinwë and his family.” The herald seems to sense that something is amiss, and adds, with another bow, “They shall return within a week.”

“We do not have that kind of time,” Amil murmurs, so low that Maitimo imagines he is the only one who hears it. She speaks to the herald again. “Thank you, we may yet return. For now, we call upon our other kin.”

“Our other—” Maitimo begins, but Amil has taken the reins from him and pulled round the plough-horse’s head.

“I would see Anairë,” she says. “Come, Makalaurë. Come, Tyelkormo.”

Anairë and Amil are old friends, a friendship unsullied by their husbands’ resentment. Still, Maitimo does not want to imagine the increase in Atar’s wrath if he returns to find that they have taken refuge in Ñolofinwë’s house.

 _If_ , taunts a small voice within, the same that wishes to sling retorts at Makalaurë, his closest ally, the same that dogs his steps with criticism even harsher than that which Atar would give. _If he returns at all._

 

Ñolofinwë’s house is lesser than the palace, but not by much. In many ways (so the whispers go), Ñolofinwë plays the role of High Prince better than Fëanáro.

If Maitimo has heard the whispers, Atar has heard them too. He shuts his eyes briefly, but no more prayers come.

The guards at Ñolofinwë’s gates are not quite so smooth-voiced, so welcoming. Still, they bow, and still, they stand aside.

Maitimo is grateful to see Findekáno dashing down the front steps. Findekáno is farther from his majority than Makalaurë is from his, but there is something indelibly trustworthy about Ñolofinwë’s eldest. His blue eyes are steady with peace; Maitimo could trust him with much.

 _Does_ trust him with much.

“Aunt Nerdanel!” Findekáno cries, and his gaze crosses all his cousins to rest on Maitimo with a warm smile. “Russandol. How came you here? Is all well?”

“Forgive us for intruding, nephew,” Amil answers. “I come to fall upon your mother’s kindness.”

Maitimo knows without looking that his brothers all sit up a little straighter at that, silently protesting the idea that any son of Fëanáro must fall upon the grace of another being, kin or half-kin or no. He himself is too tired to share such familial pride.

That, and Atar is gone. Atar is the reason they are at the mercy of Tirion.

“I shall tell her at once that you have arrived,” Findekáno says, with eager friendliness. He looks for all the world as if they are only paying a social call, rather than arriving in obvious desperation.

“Thank you,” Amil says. Her voice does tremble a bit, this time.

Maitimo dismounts and holds out his arms to guide Amil down. She places her hands on his wrists, swings her legs over the saddle, and faints.


	2. Chapter 2

“She is resting,” Anairë says. “She bled a little, but our healers believe that her sons are healthy.” She pauses. “And she was right—they will come soon. The contractions have already started. Forgive my liberties in discussing this, but since you are the eldest…”

“It is no trouble,” Maitimo tells her, and bows his head in thanks. Atar and Amil have never been squeamish about discussing the finer points of pregnancy and childbirth with their sons; Atar especially believes it is part of the life-debt they owe Amil.

Maitimo wanders the elaborate halls of his uncle’s home, feeling as wasted as a wraith. Yet, when he catches a glimpse of himself in the glass, he is as shamefully beautiful as ever. Riding has brought color to his cheeks, brightened his eyes.

A fever, of course, might do the same.

He finds the guest rooms that his aunt has set aside for him and his brothers. There, chaos reigns: Makalaurë is chasing Atarinkë, who has stolen Carnistir’s wooden bear. Atar whittled that bear for Carnistir’s second begetting day, and for more than a decade since, its presence (and its occasional, terrifying absence) has played an outsized role in all their lives.

“For Manwë’s sake,” Maitimo murmurs, and scoops up Atarinkë as he scampers past. He snatches the bear from one tiny, surprisingly steely hand, and returns it to a sobbing Carnistir.

Atarinkë does not start mewling in turn; rather, he regards Maitimo with a stormy gaze, then sinks his teeth into Maitimo’s wrist.

Maitimo swears so harshly that even Makalaurë looks scandalized. Atarinkë  _does_  cry now, but he cries silently, which is unnerving for one so small.

“I’m sorry,” Maitimo says, to Atarinkë and the room, though other than an unrepeatable comment about Varda, he is too tired to know what he has done wrong. “Makalaurë...”

“ _What_?” Makalaurë snaps. He looks ready to weep himself, for all that he is almost old enough to have children of his own.

Maitimo’s reproach dies on his lips. “Nothing, Káno. Let’s put them down to sleep.”

“He’s too old for that bear,” Makalaurë mutters venomously, which means he is tired—Makalaurë is usually encouraging of the little ones’ imaginative play. Fortunately, Carnistir does not hear him.

Maitimo thinks of mentioning that it is less about the bear than about the fact that they all miss Atar, but Makalaurë has probably figured that, too, out for himself.

There are three beds. Maitimo moves to put Atarinkë in the one he’d chosen for himself, but Makalaurë stops him with a hand on his arm.

“Take Carnistir. He’s less—vicious to you.”

So someone else  _has_ noticed. Maitimo flushes, but he nods. “Very well.”

He tucks Carnistir in, and Carnistir holds the bear close in his stubby hands. “I want Atar,” he whispers.

“Atar!” wails Atarinkë, his small face crumpling like a clenched fist.

It is at that moment that Tyelko chooses to reappear, having conveniently missed the opportunity to be of any help. Huan is hot on his heels.

“You  _gwef_ ,” Makalaurë growls, collaring Tyelko. “Why is your mangy—”

“He’s not mangy! And he followed us here. He was  _worried_.”

“ _Ilúvatar…_ ” Maitimo murmurs. It’s not a prayer. “Did he wallow in every mud puddle on the way here?”

“No! Well—”

“How do you know?” Makalaurë is practically scarlet with rage. “You’re going to get us thrown out of the house, Tyelkormo, and what will Amil do then? Birth our brothers in a ditch?”

“Be still, Makalaurë,” Maitimo shouts, abandoning their united front—a mistake he’ll likely regret later. “Tyelko, take the hound outside. Then find some rags and clean up afterwards before someone”— _our uncle_ —“Finds out.”

Carnistir and Atarinkë are shrieking now.

Tyelko slumps out of the room, and Huan follows, somehow slumping too, in near-perfect imitation of his master.

Maitimo pinches the bridge of his nose. “Makalaurë, I—”

Makalaurë won’t look at him.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“No!” Makalaurë’s voice trembles. “Scold  _me_  by all means.”

Sometimes Makalaurë really is Atar’s son more than Amil’s. He takes offense so easily.

“We’ve got to get them to go to sleep,” Maitimo says beseechingly. He’ll get down on his knees if that’s what it takes. “Did you bring your harp?”

“When did I have a chance to bring my harp? When we were dragging our pregnant mother across all of Aman? When Atar swore he’d see us all— _dead_ —before he saw us bow before Manwë?”

Maitimo stares at him. He can’t speak, or move. He can’t even go to him, to his beloved Makalaurë, and steady those shaking shoulders.

“Can I be of any help?” comes a calm voice from the doorway.

It is Findekáno, harp in hand, and Maitimo has never been more grateful to see anyone in his life.

Maitimo nods, but Makalaurë steps forward, as though the sight of a familiar instrument has comforted him with new resolve.

“May I borrow it? They are used to my playing.”

Findekáno smiles and hands it over.

“Go with him,” Makalaurë says to Maitimo. “Go drink some wine.”

 _You are not needed here_ , says the little voice, but Findekáno’s drowns it out.

“I have been hoarding a bottle of my father’s finest vintage for just such a time,” he whispers conspiratorially, and Maitimo follows him.

Ordinarily they escape to the garden during family gatherings, but tonight they climb the stairs, until they reach a small portion of the roof that is enclosed by a low wall. Findekáno has a round bottle under his arm.

Looking over the lamplights of Tirion, Maitimo is reminded of an unwelcome thought. “I never greeted your father,” he says. “And now it has grown so late. I…I should make an appearance, explain our presence as best I can.”

“My father won’t say anything amiss,” Findekáno assures him, sitting down on the wall and gesturing for Maitimo to do the same.

“Yes, but he’ll think things.”

“He’s always thinking things. I haven’t been able to make him stop that, though I’ve tried.” Findekáno wrinkles his brow in a good imitation of Ñolofinwë’s skepticism and intones, “Findekáno, long have I considered...”

For all that he jests, there is no mistaking the easy affection there, the love between father and son.

Maitimo makes himself smile anyway, for Findekáno deserves it.

They pass the bottle back and forth—it really is excellent, probably a gift from Grandfather Finwë, fermented in some foreign land. Finwë could be friends with anyone.

Why cannot his sons do the same?

Maitimo rests his chin on his hand and watches the lamps, which hang like low-flung stars.

“Here.” His cousin pats his shoulder. “Sleep if you need to.”

“How would that be comfortable?” Maitimo does laugh now, sincerely. “You’re as bad as Makalaurë—and by that I mean, short.”

(Where is Atar now? His horse was gone from the stable—he must be riding, riding so hard that the road is a blur of dust beneath him. He will be bright, even in Telperion’s lesser light. His hair will still stream behind him like a dark and shining mantle.)

(He will still be Fëanáro, and sometimes Maitimo thinks that that is a terrible burden.)

He cannot sigh and betray his thoughts. But he does take Findekáno’s offer, angling himself so that he can lean on his cousin’s shoulder. His hair spills down his arm; it looks like blood by Telperion’s light.

Maitimo shuts his eyes.

He wakes to Findekáno shaking him gently. “Russandol! Russandol!”

Maitimo blinks away the heaviness of sleep. His mouth is sour and dry. “What—”

“It’s your mother,” Findekáno says, and he is trying to hide his worry but he is young, still, and it leaks out at the edges. “She—the healers sent someone to find you.”

Maitimo scrubs his hands over his face and stands so quickly that his head swims. Findekáno keeps pace with him, half-running.

The chamber where Amil stays is a floor below the guest rooms, and two long halls away. It was considerate of Aunt Anairë to separate them so; the little ones will not be disturbed by Amil’s cries. Still, it takes what feels like an eternity to get there.

Maitimo skids to a halt outside the door. One of the healers, a woman with flat dark hair pulled back beneath a grey netted cap, nods to him. “She wants you to come in.”

Beside him, Findekáno blanches.

“Would you go to my brothers?” Maitimo asks— _begs_ —and his cousin nods.

Inside the room, more healers move around the bed. They are blurred shapes to Maitimo; he can only see Amil, her bright hair plastered against her cheeks with sweat, her skin gone pale with pain. The bed beneath her is already wet and bloodied. Her feet and legs are bare. Maitimo averts his eyes and goes to stand by the headboard.

When she looks at him, her eyes are still Amil’s eyes. “I need him,” she says. “Maitimo, I need Fëanáro.”

It is the curse they all bear.

He kneels beside the bed, capturing one of her hands in his. “He will come back,  _ammë_. I know it.”

“I cannot do this without him. I cannot—” her back arches and she  _screams_ , a sound so raw and absolute that surely all of Aman can hear it. Maitimo clenches his jaw and presses his eyes shut, hiding his face in the damp mass of her hair, not letting go of her hand.

“My lady,” says a healer’s voice, seeming to float disembodied above them, “You must begin pushing now.”

Amil’s voice is hoarser. “Please, Maitimo. You shouldn’t—you shouldn’t have to be here. Find Fëanáro.”

It is an impossible task. He stands, his hand still on hers, wondering how she can speak at all through what must be such sharp-edged agony. “Amil, I will look for him if that is your wish, but I…”

The words die on his lips. He can’t tell her that he might fail.

He can’t fail at all.

He releases her too-cold fingers. He hears the healers murmuring, something about  _losing blood, she’s losing too much blood_ , and knows without a doubt that his father will find a way to save her.

He lost his own mother like this; surely he will not, by the strength of his will alone, lose his wife in the same way.

Maitimo runs from the room. He needs help, even help his father would spurn.

(He is not his father.)

  

“Russandol,” Ñolofinwë says, looking up from his desk. He calls Maitimo by the epessë his eldest son began, perhaps because  _Nelyafinwë_  is a slight against his birth order and  _Maitimo_  is too flattering for a nephew less than fifty years his junior. “I heard that you had come. Is your mother well?”

“No,” Maitimo answers. He has to force himself not to chew on his lips, a habit Atar hates almost as much as he hates Maitimo’s habit of styling the front of his hair in a fringe that angles towards his right cheek.

_What is wrong with the forehead I gave you, Nelyo?_

“My healers are attending her.”

“She needs…she needs Atar.” He feels as if he is scratching the words of a death sentence on parchment, folding it and sealing it with his father’s ring.  _Shame on this house, this family_. “Amil is having twins, as you know. She is very weak, and she—she has always relied on the strength of Atar’s _fëa_ at these times.”

Ñolofinwë’s lips thin a little, as if he is once again confounded by the wild, intimate ways in which his half-brother lives his entire life. “Why have you come to me?”

Curiosity, not malice. Ñolofinwë is  _thinking_ , just as Maitimo knew he would.

“Because I do not know where Atar is,” he whispers. It is not the voice of one prince speaking to another. It is the voice of a boy, and at the moment he is too exhausted to be anything else. “And I cannot find him on my own. Will you—”

Ñolofinwë rises. He does so with calm purpose, but Maitimo sees the quill that was in his hand a moment ago skitter across the page, dripping dots of black ink. Not quite so calm, then, as he seems.

(Sometimes Maitimo believes that Ñolofinwë’s heart is laid open before Atar, too.)

“I will send out my fastest riders to search Tirion and Aman for him.”

Maitimo bites his lip. “He would not—he would not be in Tirion.”

 “Would he not?” rings a voice from behind them, and Maitimo and Ñolofinwë turn to meet Fëanáro's blazing eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gwef = louse


	3. Chapter 3

“Where is she?” Fëanáro demands, and he does not sound like himself, except that perhaps no other man alive could sound as he does, like a fire and a blinding wind are met and matched at his very heart. “Where is my wife?”

“She is unwell,” Ñolofinwë answers. Maitimo can see his hands, though Fëanáro cannot, and his hands are clenched.

For his words—for his ability to speak at all—Maitimo is grateful. Even this is another betrayal. Yet what would he say to Atar, standing in Ñolofinwë’s study, asking Ñolofinwë’s aid?

 _If Atar was going to give one of us his name_ , Tyelko said once, not knowing that those words—or any words—could sting, _Why did he wait for Atarinkë? Why did he not give it to you?_

 _I do not know,_ Maitimo answered, and he spoke lightly. What he wanted to say was, _I do not understand him_ , for this has always been true.

_I do not understand him, yet I love him._

_He hurts me, yet I love him._

These things also have always been true, together, in Fëanáro’s house.

“I know she is unwell,” Atar snaps, but his face is deadly pale and the shadows around him can be read like living scripts.

_Too late, too late._

That is always Atar’s fear, if he has one—and he does. He fears that he comes too late.

(To genius, to victory, to his mother’s side.)

(To Nerdanel his wife, to his sons, to hope, to light.)

“She sent Maitimo to search for you,” Ñolofinwë adds. And in an unexpected kindness: “I intercepted him, and asked his purpose.”

Maitimo cannot even nod his thanks.

Atar’s eyes flash between them, and then his gaze turns wild again. “Take me to her,” he cries, and half-brother and first-son both leap forward to lead the way.

The healers part before Fëanáro. Ever has grief and worry looked the same as wrath with him, and his wrath is mighty. Maitimo sees the door open, and catches one glimpse of Amil’s ashen face. Hears, for one moment, how she cries out Atar’s name in abject gratitude, and knows that the wound between them is considered mended for a time.

(For Atar _does_ love her, loving perhaps most that she needs him, and Maitimo can never be sure where that need ends and something purer begins.)

(This is Atar, after all. All his gems are forged by fire.)

Amil will live. The twins will live. Maitimo knows this, and yet he stumbles, his knees weak and his eyes pricking with the touch of tears.

“Russandol,” comes Ñolofinwë’s voice—strangely gentle, for him. It makes him sound too much like Findekáno. Maitimo does not wait to hear the rest; he flees.

Back to the rooftop, though the memory of wine has long since faded from his tongue, leaving only a wave of sickness in his stomach. He sits on the wall and rests his head against both his hands. He weeps, and it would be dreadfully easy to pitch forward, off the low wall, and leave Fëanáro with no eldest, and still, when the night is over, no fewer sons.

He is not so foolish, nor so despairing, of course. The Eldar do not treat their own lives recklessly.

He leans back instead, letting the night air dry his face. And then there are footsteps, and he fears it is Findekáno—too kind and patient and smiling, too capable of being _disappointed_. Maitimo must be brave for him, must be noble and untouchable whenever he can. If that is pride, it is the same pride that is wounded when Atarinkë looks at him without affection or awe.

This is the birthright of the eldest son of Fëanáro, given to him whether he shares his father’s name or not.

(To need.)

“Maitimo,” Makalaurë says, soft with sympathy, and Maitimo relaxes.

It is not Findekáno after all. In the last beams of Telperion, he has no cause to keep up a façade with Makalaurë.

All the same—“I am embarrassed,”  he admits, smearing his fingertips over his eyes. “Pay me no mind.”

Makalaurë reaches up to dab the tears away with the edge of his sleeve. “So pretty, even when you weep.” It is too fond to be mocking. “The rest of us are red and puffy for hours.”

“For a few moments, at least.” There is no use in beauty, at such a time as this, but Maitimo must cling to what he has and so he does not say so. “How did you find me here?”

“Findekáno told me where he thought you might be.”

“I expected him rather than you, poking his nose into my pathetic business.”

“No.” Makalaurë lifts his angled features to the sky. “No, he told me I should go—because I am your brother.”

Maitimo smiles. “And what did you tell him?”

Makalaurë takes his hand and holds it tightly. “I told him that that is why he is our friend.”

They sit in silence for a while. Most of the lights are gone; Tirion is asleep. All down the slopes of Túna lies a quiet raiment of peace.

But here—

“My lords.” A servant finds them—Findekáno directed him, too, no doubt. “Your parents wish to speak with you.”

 _Parents_. So Amil lives, and Atar is with her. Maitimo breathes the air so deeply he imagines himself inebriated by it, shaken from a grasp on reality by the heady taste of the wind.

(Is this how Atar lives, always?)

( _I do not understand him_.)

In the long halls, their cousins—Turukáno and Írissë and even fat little Arakáno blinking in the arms of his nurse—are huddled together. Findekáno smiles his encouragement, but Maitimo has no chance to return the glance. Tyelko and Carnistir and Atarinkë are stampeding towards them; Atarinkë crashes into Maitimo’s legs and sticks there like a burr.

The door of Amil’s chamber opens. It is Atar. He has a bundle in his arms—no, two bundles.

“Come and meet your brothers,” he says. There is sweat on his brow and his hands are red with Amil’s blood, yet he looks like a king. No, Maitimo decides, thinking of the solid grace of Grandfather Finwë—Atar looks like more than a king.

He looks like a Holy One, like something no mortal thought can wholly touch.

And yet in his hands are his sons, touching and being touched. Two whimpering faces, two wisps of hair.

Hair that is fast drying to be as copper-bright as Maitimo’s own.

“Darlings,” breathes Makalaurë, weeping quite shamelessly—no matter how red his face may become—and he stretches out his arms.

“This is Ambarussa,” Atar says, proud and distinct. “Careful, Tyelkormo! Do not jostle your brother’s arms.”

They make for a strange gathering, usurping the center of Ñolofinwë’s house. Uncle and aunt and cousins wait silent in the wings, servants hover with their eyes on the line of Fëanáro, rather than seeking their master’s bidding.

Maitimo sees it all: sees how Atarinkë has run to Atar, how Carnistir is gazing worshipfully at little Ambarussa, and even offers him the wooden bear.

“Thank you for your generosity, Carnistir,” Makalaurë says softly, “But he is too young, still. Too young for toys.”

 _And what are we too young for?_ There it is, the small voice in Maitimo’s mind. He does not answer it. He stares at his hands. They are useless when they are empty. Makalaurë and Tyelkormo are nearly grown. Soon, too, will Carnistir be—and little Atarinkë does not love him as the rest do (did).

“Nelyo,” Atar says, low and resonant and so terribly, achingly happy that Maitimo has no choice but to let his heart leap for joy in return—even if the leap is one in the dark. “Hold him.”

Willingly, Maitimo takes his second brother in his arms.

Atar’s hand settles against his neck, warm. Atar always runs hot; his blood is kin to his forge. “He is perfect, is he not?”

“He is.” Maitimo answers, little louder than a whisper. He looks down at the scrunched face, the flame of hair, and promises this brother as he has all the ones before: _You, too, I shall keep safe_.

If he added, _from him_ , even in thought, it would be another betrayal.

“Your mother called them both by the same name, but we cannot have that. Who else has had two sons spring from the same flowering? Who else can look at these like faces and rejoice in their separate _fear_? And so I call him _Ambarto_ , high and lofty, for he shall lead us in right paths.”

“A good name,” Maitimo agrees, tracing the bud-like lips with one finger. “Noble.”

And yet—no peace. Atar’s grip tightens as he talks, and Maitimo cannot flinch away. He makes out the words only after they are spoken, an exercise as dizzying as trying to follow the ripple and crash of a waterfall.

“I thought you gone,” Atar says. His voice is still pitched low, so that no one—not Makalaurë, not Ñolofinwë—can hear. “My wife, my sons, even the horses—I thought you all had left me.” His nails dig into the soft flesh behind Maitimo’s jaw. It hurts.  

“Atar,” Maitimo says. One word, only. _You left us. You were the one who left. You always do this, you always—_ Again, he says only, “ _Atar_.”

“They are perfect,” Atar repeats, as if it is a prayer. But how can it be? Atar offers no prayers. “They are perfect, are they not? All my sons. All my works.”

Maitimo would weep again, if he had the safety of the rooftop, the loyal press of Makalaurë’s hand on his. But there is no safety here. He bites his lip, remembering too late that Atar hates the habit. “They are beautiful,” he says.

Maitimo must spend his whole life hoping that, to Atar, those are the same thing.

 

“Eldest,” Amil breathes, when Maitimo shuts the door behind him. The healers have left her alone; she has more color in her cheeks now, and though her hair is tangled and her skin sheened with sweat, she is Amil again. She is, once more, ever-wise and ever-stronger than any of them. “Maitimo, my son. How can I thank you?”

He opens his mouth and closes it again. _Thank_ him? For what—doing his duty as the first-born?

Amil seems to sense his confusion, for she smiles. “You do not know the goodness of your own heart,” she tells him. “I named you well-formed for more than your face, dear one.”

This, too, leaves him stuttering. He regains his charms only by asking after her health.

“I will recover,” Amil assures him. “It was—difficult. Difficult, to deliver so much life.”

“I have met my brothers,” Maitimo says, sitting beside her and taking her hand. It is warm and light in his—the pain is gone. “They are precious, Amil.”

“As were you, and all my sons.” Her brow furrows, and she wrings her hand free, reaching up to stroke the spot below his ear. He winces, and her fingers come away bloody.

“You are injured! What happened?”

(Atar, holding him close, nails digging like the claws of a desperate beast. Is _desperate_ a word he dares to think of Atar?)

“It is nothing.”

“And are these _teeth-marks_ on your wrist?” She shakes her head. “I must break Atarinkë of this habit.”

“Tell me more of the twins,” Maitimo says, and he can do this, can make his voice dance with Laurelin’s gold. He is not Makalaurë, weaver of song, but he must make uses for beauty. He sees that now, in the light of dawning day. “Ambarussa?”

“It suits them both.”

“And Ambarto.”

 “Your father rejoices in such an upright name,” Amil murmurs. She turns towards the window, where Laurelin strengthens, surpassing Telperion in the mingling of the lights. Almost, Maitimo does not hear her next words.

Almost, later, he will wish he had not.

“Yet I called him by another.”

**Author's Note:**

> Winimo = little one


End file.
